


champagne, cocaine, gasoline (it's a hell of a feeling though)

by queenofthestarrrs



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bob Zimmermann Is Not as Supportive as He'd Like to Think He Is, Jack Zimmermann's Overdose, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 16:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12939279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthestarrrs/pseuds/queenofthestarrrs
Summary: “Jacqueline.” Kent’s voice is stern and desperate at the same time. “What did you do?”





	champagne, cocaine, gasoline (it's a hell of a feeling though)

**Author's Note:**

> tw: there is some sex that occurs under the influence of prescription drugs. i want to tag it just in case.

She tries to avoid looking into the mirror and shutters. 

 

Her hair is longer than she normally keeps it. It brushes the sides of her shoulders and peaks out of her helmet when she plays. Her knuckles are almost as white as the porcelain of the hotel sink. The red manicure, now chipped, that her mother made her get a week ago stands out, bright as blood. She keeps her gaze steady on the drain. The seemingly endless black hole fades in and out of her vision. 

 

Tomorrow Kent Parson, who is passed out half-naked in the bed they shared last night, will go first in the NHL draft. Tomorrow she will sign a contract for a nice four year scholarship to a nice American college. Tomorrow she will face down her father, who silently mourns an alternate future, with a son who could carry on a family legacy. Tomorrow she will begin the countdown to the end of her professional career; she watch the days tick by, game by game, until she has to take her skates off and find a “real” job.  It makes her fucking sick.

 

She vomits into the sink. Blood specks are just the same shade as her nail. It taste acidic, like the Crown Russe and lemonade that she chugged with Kent. Her knuckles go whiter than she thought possible. The tension illuminates the delicate structure of her hands. She coughs as she heaves again. She begins to shake and shake and shake. Her teeth chatter loudly, the sound rattling in her ear. There is a banging at the door.   
  
She blinks and is on the floor. She turns her head to the side and vomits again. The orange bottle of her prescription rolls away from her open hand. The remaining pills, six despite a prescription that was filled yesterday, scatter across the tile. Someone is slamming the door. She can hear the lock strain against the pressure.    
  
She blinks, and Kent is cradling her head. His hair is greasy. There is a bruise blooming on his shoulder. She imagines him checking the door like she has seen him throw kids up against the glass. There are tears in his eyes which shift between an icy blue and grey. He is chattering away; she can’t understand anything he says. His hand swats away the remaining pills from her grasp. She reaches out desperately to find his arm. She is only greeted with the coolness of her own sweat-slicked bare leg.

  
“Jacqueline.” Kent’s voice is stern and desperate at the same time. “What did you do?”    
  
She blinks, and the darkness takes seconds to fade. She is tired, so tired, too tired to hold up her own head. She sinks lower into Kent’s lap. She closes her eyes again, and her own voice drowns in her ears.    
  
“I just wanted to be better.”   
  


-

 

Her parents thought she was going to be a boy. Not in the strange intuition of a mother kind of way. They thought she would be a boy in the technician misread the ultrasound kind of way.    
  
Bob cries when he hears. The rest of his team chirps him for it. They tell him, breathless with laughter, they don’t know what he’s so excited about. His son is bound to be just another pretty boy with someone looking to bust his face in. He cries again, though, when the cards of congratulations come pouring in with long messages of assurance and genuine love from his team.   

 

Alicia, a few months later, utilizes the information to throw a lavish baby shower. She wears a custom white dress from her Dolce and Gabbana collaboration. She pins cluster of blue hydrangeas above her swelling breasts, and they bring out the brightness of her eyes. She doles out delicate cupcakes frosted with the perfect shade of baby blue to her mother’s Bible study group. She and her friends giggle as the color tangles in Bob’s playoff beard as he sneaks one of the table before the entirety of the guests arrive. She gleefully unpacks tiny sippy cups shaped like the Stanley Cup and Penguins onesies with  _ Zimmermann _ printed on the back. 

 

They were going to name their child Jack, after his grandfather. 

 

The name still sticks, in a sort of way. 

 

Alicia holds her new daughter for only a minute, hands shaking. Her hair is matted against her swollen and sweat face. She’s shaking, and she bursts into tears when a tiny hand wraps around her finger. She is still crying as she is carefully whisked away by a team of soft spoken nurses to receive blood transfusions in the ICU . Birth, much like living, is a dangerous and bloody proposition. 

 

The obstetrician carefully places the girl, tinier than expected, into Bob’s awaiting arms. His mouth is agape, eyes filled with panic. He clasps his daughter close to his chest as the last of Alicia’s nurses shuffle out of the room.    
  
“Don’t worry, ma chérie. Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to be okay, Jacqueline. Ta mère ira bien. Tout ira bien bientôt. Everything is going to be fine.”    
  
He is talking to himself much more than he is to her. 

 

-

 

One of her most treasured memories, the one she keeps on a mental shelf, is skating with her father on a bright and sunny morning in January. She was three with eyes she hadn’t quite grown into yet and a severe haircut. She had a soft laugh and a lisp and a bright smile. 

 

Her father was home, finally, from a roadie that seemed like it had lasted forever. She would count the nights he was gone, one by one, before she would sleep at night. Sometimes, she would dream that her father would die. He would get hit too hard and not wake up. She imagines buses going up in flames and airplanes crashing to the ground. Her grandmother, who stays with them when father is away, tells her she is too young for such thoughts.    
  
(Grandmother privately chastises Alicia when Jacqueline is asleep. Where was a three year old getting these ideas? All that television is going to rot her brain.)    
  
Bob surprises her in the morning with freshly made pancakes and maple syrup from Grand-Pere's farm back home in Montreal. She eats them greedily, sweet stickiness across her face. Bob speaks to her slowly in French, gently correcting her pronunciation. They laugh together. The pond in their backyard has frozen over, and the sunlight bounces off of it to fill their kitchen.    
  
He pulls her hair back until a sloppy ponytail and helps her wriggle into her pink snowsuit. He ties her pristine white skates. She laughs and squeaks as he gathers her in his arms. Bob carries her out to the pond. She carefully builds a miniature snowman while Bob’s laces his hockey skates.    
  
They do lazy circles on the ice for what seems like forever. Time stands still. There’s only her and her father and the feeling of flying. 

 

-   
  


 

There is a pond just like the one in their backyard in Pittsburgh at her treatment facility. 

 

Then she comes to Samwell, sets foot onto the frozen ice surrounded by trees in an abandoned corner of campus. She thinks that she’s seen a pond like this before.    
  
  


-

 

She quits figure skating when she’s five.    
  
Her grandmother thought it would be a good idea, figure skating. She could skate as competitively as her father one day. She could even go professional if she wanted to; that option wasn’t available to her if she played hockey. It wasn’t fair, but it was true.    
  
Jacqueline adores it with her entire tiny heart. Her coaches are nice to her, and she speeds past the other girls on the first day of practice. She likes the sparkly jackets that she gets to wear to primary school. She likes spending time on the ice where the coolness bites against her warm skin. She likes the girls who train at her rink and their bright laughs. 

 

The day is a Wednesday. She is unlacing her skates before her mother comes to pick her up. Her fingers move quickly through her laces, and wiggles her toes with glee when her foot is finally free. She feels good, like there’s a bubble of light in her chest. Jacqueline was the first her class to complete an axle with a height that seemed to be uncommon for her age group. It’s a challenging move, and when she lands, she yells and slaps her chest once. It’s a very close imitation of Bad Bob’s goal celebration. 

 

Her coach, a former Olympian because the Zimmermans were unlikely to settle for anything else, thinks she could be competitive in the next tournament that weekend. She has little qualms telling her that as the entire team shuffles into the locker room. 

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Elizabeth, a girl with bright blonde hair that falls in ringlets and deep brown eyes, pronounces as parents stream in to pick up their children. She thinks Elizabeth is fine. They don’t talk much during practice, but she never thought that Elizabeth actively disliked her. “Jacqueline won’t get very far in the next competition because she’s  _ fat. _ ”    
  
Fat. 

  
Fat is bad. Fat is not pretty. Fat is what her mother tries to avoid becoming. Fat is what she’ll be if she doesn’t eat her vegetables. 

 

Fat.   
  
The bubble in her chest feels like it’s going to burst. There’s a sinking feeling in her stomach. Elizabeth’s mother, a tired looking with the same eyes, opens her mouth to rebuke her, but it doesn’t matter. Jacqueline is already darting towards the parking lot. One white skate falls to the ground, abandoned on the seventies-era carpeting.    
  
Her tears blur her eyes as she stares directly at her round stomach in her the back of her mother’s car. Alicia is driving towards Grandmother’s house; she had a shoot to do in Paris over the weekend, and Bob just found out his team would have to travel for first round playoff games. The traffic is heavy, but Alicia expertly drifts in and out of lanes. A pop song plays over the radio. 

  
“I don’t understand. You were doing so well. The coach said you were doing an excellent job, and we already payed for the competition. You picked out your performance outfit. It’s blue, just like you wanted.” Alicia fights to talk over the song. Jacqueline wonders why her mother just doesn’t turn it off.    
  
“Doesn’t matter,” mumbles Jacqueline. “No one would have been there to watch me anyway.” 

 

Alicia’s knuckles turn stark white on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. You know that your papa and I wanted to be there. We just have work, sweetness. The other parents do too. We just work at different times. You know that mama and papa don’t have jobs like the other parents. We’ve been there for all the other ones. We saw you just the other week.”    
  
  
“I would just rather do hockey.” 

 

-

 

She’s good at hockey, better than she ever was at figure skating.    
  
Her parents enroll her in a co-ed league two weeks later, and she shines. 

 

She shines every time that she steps out on the ice. Figure skating has made her fast and light on her feet. She skates circles around her mostly male team. Years of watching her father, and perhaps just a dash of genetics, have made her a natural. She quickly becomes the team’s top scorer during her first season. Her focus is so lasered in on the game that she can hardly hear her grandparents’ cheers. She occasionally doesn’t even hear the sound of her own coach. The only thing that she hears is sound the puck makes as it slams against the net. The  _ swish  _ just sounds so sweet. 

 

Her team names her Most Valuable Player at their end of the year banquet. The coaches hand her a little plastic medal over cheap pizza. She gets it stained and greasy as she puts around her neck. She doesn’t care. She loves the feeling of her parents’ smiling at her, of her uncles’ saying that she’s an old chip off of the block. 

 

She becomes obsessed. 

 

She likes skating, like the feeling of her skates on ice. She adores all of her teammates, considers them her best friends. She’s doing what she loves. Hockey makes her feel happy, confident, capable. Most importantly, it makes her feel loved. She adores the look of pride and admiration on her parents’ faces. 

-

  
  


She doesn’t have many friends in school. She’s quite usually quiet and reserved. Sure, her and Papa had always spoken to each other in French when they lived in Pittsburgh. This is just  _ different _ . She doesn’t understand their jokes at first. She doesn’t understand their references. They laugh at the words that she mispronounces, the sound hollow in her ear. The girls in her class don’t like her, and the boys are intimidated by muscles that are slowly becoming more outlined and defined. 

She doesn’t care. She just doubles down on her efforts for hockey. She takes time at recess to do her homework so she can stay longer at the ice rink after practice. 

 

There is no pond in their backyard in Montreal, so she rides her bike to the rink everyday afternoon. She watches grainy footage off of her mother’s video camera. She begs her father to let her into his practice, just once. She watches and learns and practices and learns and suddenly she is twelve. 

  
  
  


-

 

She enters boarding school the fall before she turns thirteen.    
  
It is under protest. 

 

“I don’t understand, Papa.” She says quietly as she watches her father pack her skates away with unusual tenderness. The bedspread in her childhood room was a nauseating color of Barbie pink. She hated it. It seemed so bright, so ostentatious, and of course, when her teammates came over, they laughed. What more could you have expected from twelve year old boys. “You know that I am as good as them. I am better than them.”

 

“Don’t let it go to your head, Jackie.” Bob heaves as he pulls his daughter’s suitcase off his bed. He’s retiring this year. His joints ache and there’s gray in his hair and he just seems tired. It seems Ironic with a capital I, in a way. His daughter is leaving home just as he decided to come back. “And I don’t know what to tell you. Steadston has an amazing program. You’re going to be learning from some of the best coaches. One of them was the captain of the Canadian National Team.”   
  
“Besides,” Bob reaches for the sky, popping his vertebrae one by one, “you’re going to get an excellent education. You can’t play hockey forever.”    
  
“You did,” she fires back. 

 

They stand there in silence. She isn’t wrong. Bob barely finished his Certificate of High School Completion when he was a little older than she was. He was too worried about the draft, too worried about being an adult at the tender age of seventeen, to be considerate with his schooling.   
  
Bob sighs. “Well, I regret not getting my education.”    
  
Jacqueline jumps off the bed, and her feet land with a thud. “If I were a boy, there would be no question. I wouldn’t be moving away to boarding school. I’d be prepping to play in the Q. I should be here, at home, with everyone else from the team. It’s not fair that they are going to play, and I won’t. It’s not fair that you’re sending me away.”    
  
Bob sighs, louder again. “We’re not sending you away. You said that you wanted to play high level hockey. This is the highest level hockey you can go. Steadston has an excellent placement rate with some of the best NCAA colleges in North America. This is what you wanted, Jackie.”    
  
“I wanted to be a professional,” she mutters sullenly. The leaves are starting to change outside of her bedroom window. She wonders if her new room at school will have trees outside. She wonders if it’ll ever feel at home. “If I were a boy, -.” 

 

“Well, you’re not a boy. And there is no professional women’s hockey league. And I wish I can change that, but there is no way that I can. So you have two options. You can either sit here and sulk about it, or you can go and pursue the highest level of hockey you can play. You could make the most out of the situation you were given.”   
  
She turns her head away violently. Silently, Bob wonders how we could have left a happy little girl and have come to find a sullen eyed near teenager. There are bags forming underneath her eyes. Her cheekbones are becoming more pronounced, and she looks more like her mother every day.    
  
“You could be an amazing player, ma chérie. You could be one of the best, an Olympian.” Bob reaches out a hand to find himself grasping at air. Jaqueline has already made a move towards the door. “The only thing standing in your way is you.” 

 

-

 

She has her first panic attack when she’s fifteen.    
  
Her parents didn’t tell her that they were coming for a game. 

 

She admits her and her parents don’t talk much anymore. She’s busy at school. She practices often, nearly constantly. When she isn’t practicing, she’s reviewing tapes or running outside across Stetson's scenic campus. She has quite a few friends on the team. They’re admittedly very close with the boy’s team. She does well in her classes, particularly likes history and English. She even joins a photography club, and she happily takes up the duties of team historian. She prides herself on the end of year video she made for the past season. She’s rarely in any of the photos, content to take pictures of her friends laughing or lacing up their skates. 

 

It wasn’t until one of her teammates, her best friend, Angelique, tells her that she can’t believe that Bad Bob is sitting behind the penalty box. Sure enough, when she peeks out of from the locker room, there her parents are. They stare expectantly onto the ice, and her mother has a sign. 

 

The panic starts off as a rumble. There’s a bubble in her chest again, and she feels like it’s going to burst. It burns and burns and burns while her stomach violently turns. She wants to cry. She wants to curl up in her bedroom in the dark, and just lie alone. She doesn’t understand why it bothers so much now. Her parents have come to games before, roadies when they were closer to home. It’s just now, they’re presence seem so heavy. Her teammates are fawning over that fact that her dad is here, and she can hear one of them complimenting her mother’s outfit.  

 

There’s a voice in her heard. It sounds mean and quiet and speaks to her in English. It tells her that she will never be as good as her father, that she will never have the chance to prove herself. It tells her that her broad shoulders, her thick thighs, her sharp expression will never be as beautiful as her mother. 

 

Suddenly, she’s thrown her helmet onto the ground and is vomiting everywhere. Her sobs come out raggedly, and her entire body shudders. She wobbles to stay standing on her skates, the fact that she is standing on two sharp lines doing little to keep her up. 

 

“I can’t do this,” the words come out in a rush. 

 

There is a touch of disappointment in her parents’ faces as they drive her to the emergency room. 

 

-

 

She meets Kent Parson when she is sixteen. 

 

She hates him.    
  
He’s billeting with a family with a house just beyond the pines on the very edge of campus. He’s from New York, plays in the Q, and the boys’ captain thinks that he’s probably going to go first in the Draft two years. 

 

He walks into the party, held in a hotel room a few miles from town, with a ragged kind of confidence. He’s all broad shoulders, bright hair, and booming syllables. His French is stumbling and halted, but it’s better than the other American kids that he came with. He’s already got two tattoos on his right arm, the beginnings of a full blown sleeve. He carefully sets down two plastic handles of Crown Russe before hooking his phone up to the speakers. Miley Cyrus comes blasting through the room, and Kent laughs. 

 

“Who are you?” He asks her, finally. Most of the girls from her team had streamed out nearly an hour ago. She’s not entirely sure why she’s here. She doesn’t like the taste of the alcohol. She certainly doesn’t like the boys from the Q. They’re too self assured, too brash. Most importantly, they remind her of a future that never was. 

 

“Who are you?” She torts back, taking another sip. A feeling of weightlessness rushes to her head, and she stumbles for a minute. She can barely stand in the heels she borrowed from her roommate. The feeling of tension in her ankles is one that’s uncomfortable and unfamiliar.   

  
“Kent,” he says, American accent thick. “My name is Kent Parson. You can call me Parse, though. Most of my friends do. And I have a feeling that we’re going to be friends.”    
  
His smile is so broad and so genuine, she winces under his gaze. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Kenny.”    
  
“The lady is a cruel mistress.” Kent takes another gulp of his drink. She doesn’t know why she called him Kenny. Half a day’s drive away from his family and practically on his own, he’s hardly a little boy. She can’t imagine him as anything other than what he is now, someone teetering on the edge of adulthood.  

 

Jacqueline laughs, a real genuine laugh. She’s surprised as it escapes her mouth. She can’t remember the last time that she’s laughed like that. She chalks it up to the alcohol. It’s a torn down her inhibitions.    
  
“You spend too much time in literature class.”    
  
Kent takes another gulp, burps, and laughs. He puts his arm, around her shoulder. The weight is heavier than she imagined, but she likes it. She feels herself leaning into his body. He’s barely taller than she is, but she likes it.    
  
“I don’t actually spend any time in literature class. I have my GED exam at the end of the month, and then I’m done with school. It gets kind of hard to read when Coach makes you do suicides until you see spots.”   
  
There is a pang of envy,    
  
“You never told me your name,” his arm clenches around her shoulders to steady himself. He’s drunker than he originally let on. The sound of Beyonce crooning is louder than she remembers it being.    
  
“Jacqueline Zimmerman, but you can call me Jack.” She doesn’t know why she says that. No one calls her Jack. Her friends and coaches call her Jackie. Most of the time, her parents draw out her name “Jac-que-line” in exasperation. She is not a Jack, but there is something thrilling about having the opportunity to be something she isn’t. “I go to school at Steadston. I play hockey.”    
  
She expects a comment about how he can’t believe that the daughter of Bob Zimmermann would settle for being a puck bunny. She expects him to ask her about her father. She expects him to tell her about all the things that she should have have been.    
  
Kent Parson does something that surprises her.    
  
“What position do you play? I bet you're amazing.”   
  
  
  


-

 

She kisses a girl a year later, at a party at the same hotel room.    
  
It’s a dare because of course it is.   
  
Goose, one of Kenny’s friends from the Q, brought his girlfriend with him to the party. She’s beautiful, much more beautiful than Jacqueline imagines she’ll ever be. Her dress is tight, and her body is toned. Her long blonde hair swishes with her every move, and her long nails curl around her phone. 

 

Goose urges them on. He says he’ll pay them each a hundred bucks. She knows it’s not real. It’s a performance for the boys around them. She can see the hunger in their eyes, the titillation of the idea of two girls kissing in front of them.    
  
Jacqueline is still surprised when the girl grasps her face and draws them together.    
  
She tastes sweet, like candy almost. She’s soft and squishy and gentle in a way that hockey players never could be. Her mouth is insistent. Jacqueline tries to ignore the shutter that goes through her body.    
  
She tries to ignore the fact that it feels realer than anything else she’s ever done. 

 

-

 

“You could become an agent or a physical therapist or something like that.”    
  
They’re fighting again, Jacqueline and her father. It seems like that’s all they do anymore. They have these ridiculously loud blow out that reverberate through their ridiculously large house that has seemed more and more empty everytime she comes home from school. Alicia is in the kitchen, with her lips pursed. She does not speak, does not act. She only observes. 

 

“And what, Papa, enable other people’s dreams? Sit on the sidelines for the rest of my life? You know that I could cut it. I’ve been practicing with the boys, with some of the kids who are in the Q. I can cut it.” She slams her fist at the wall. It’s shaking violently, and it isn’t from pain.    
  
“What would you do if they hit you?” Bob looks frustrated. He flips absentmindedly through the literature that the University of Wisconsin sent them. There’s a picture of a smiling group of girls on the front cover, walking to class. “You can handle a fifteen year old boy hitting you. Fifteen year old boys don’t play in the NHL. What would you do if a thirty year old man in full pads hit you at 45 kilometers per hour? What would you do if you got hit with a puck going one hundred and sixty kilometers an hour? What would you do if you, God forbid, got into a fight?”    
  
Alicia chirps up from the kitchen. “You’ll have so much fun in college, love. I loved it. You could join a sorority. I was a Gamma Phi when I went to Samwell. There is so much to do. You could go to the socials and the formals and have plenty of friends. It might be good for you to meet girls outside of hockey.”    
  
Jacqueline nurses her hand. She tries to hold it steady, to keep her parents from noticing the shaking. Instead her entire upper body is shaking. “You don’t believe I can do it. You never believed in me,”   
  
“I never said that. We are your parents. We’re looking out for what’s best for you, Jacqueline. Your burning your wheels on this NHL thing. You’re going to let it consume you.” Bob puts down the pamphlet. “The only thing in your way of a happy life is, yet again, you. I thought you and your therapist talked about this. I thought this was supposed to get better.” 

 

She feels like she’s on autopilot as she grabs the keys off of the counter and marches out the door. She cannot hear her father’s protests. She cannot feel her upper body as she drives herself back to her dorm on campus. She cannot feel her fingers as she types out “come over” on her phone. 

 

Her head is swimming by the time Kent sheepishly opens the door. She can barely feel anything as he pushes himself inside her. She closes her eyes to forget.    
  
She wants to forget her father’s words. She wants to forget the fact that she took three pills instead of her normal three. She wants to forget the look of love in Kent’s eyes. 

  
  


-

 

She watches Kent slip on the Aces jersey on the TV. 

  
Her dark hair, longer than she’s ever kept it, spills across the bed.    
  
She closes her eyes.    
  
Her father clicks off the TV.

 

-

 

She reads the email on her way to class.    
  
It’s from the president of Gamma Phi Beta on campus. The first half is an overtly cheerful invitation. Formal rush starts in a week, the email tells her, and the girls of Gamma Phi would be thrilled if she would stop by to learn more about the house.    
  
The second half is a long tribute to her mother. Under her mother’s presidency, they became the top sorority on campus. They won Greek Sing, top GPA, and had three fraternity sweethearts in the same year. They’d be thrilled to continue the legacy; she could make a great president too some day.    
  
Jacqueline sighs as she scans the room for seats. The shadow of her parents is apparently longer than she ever thought it was. She imagines how foolish that would be, a twenty three year old sorority pledge. 

 

She silently mourns the fact that Wisconsin wouldn’t take her, not after her incident.    
  
She spots a Samwell’s Men Hockey sweatshirt in the front row, and she plops herself next to him. She didn’t expect many guys in her Women’s Studies class. She never expected a hockey player to be here. But there this kid was, all of eighteen years old, with a mustache and an ill-fitting warm up jacket. 

 

“You know, I think women’s sports are really undervalued. Like the fact that we get first priority on the ice, and you guys have to make your schedule around ours is, like, the definition of the patriarchy. I’m Shitty, by the way. Well, actually, my name is Brad, but you can call me Shitty. The rest of the team does.” He babbles off before she can even open her textbook. She smiles despite herself.    
  
“Jack.” 

 

-

  
Erica Bittle arrives on campus two years later.    
  
She has perfectly curled blonde hair and big brown eyes and her shirt rides up as she pulls off her Lily Pulitzer sweatshirt.    
  
Jacqueline is smitten before she’s even done moving into the house. 


End file.
